


All Petals

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: a prompt from tumblr, by... novelogical is name on AO3. as follows: Porthos has a secret admirer who writes him nice letters and lovely poetry. There are shenanigans to figure out who on earth it is. Hint: it’s Athos.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	All Petals

**Author's Note:**

> I reread this just now and I enjoyed myself, so here, have some scrappy poetry and absolutely fantastic at romance boys. And some excellent poetry written by other people. Poetry is cool.

Porthos gets a fair amount of post, which is unusual in this day and age but between GP and other doctorly stuff, uni stuff, trying to get his name changed on everything stuff, he gets a bunch of letters. He’s got a knack of telling what’s in the envelope and most of the time he’ll just confirm he knows and chuck it on the pile in the wire basket he keeps on the kitchen counter for it all. This one is different. It’s not the handwritten envelope, stuff from the GP often comes like that. Nor is it the fancy script, contrary to stereotype his doctor has a very nice hand. Nor is it the lack of return address, he asked years and years ago that his GP office send stuff anonymized and they’ve never stopped. No, what makes this one different is that it’s in a lilac envelope and is sealed. A proper old fashioned wax seal. With an imprint of lips. It says S.W.A.L.K underneath in the same fancy hand. Porthos sits at the breakfast table and stares at it.

“What’s that, baby?” his mum says, coming in already dressed for work, yawning. She’s in court today so he’s made her coffee in a carry-out mug and a bacon butty in a greaseproof-paper bag to take with her. She spots it and smiles, kissing his hair on her way through. “You’re good to me, Porthos.”

“I dunno,” Porthos says. “I mean I know I’m good to you, you deserve to have people be good to you, I dunno what this is though.”

“Is Aramis up and out, or abed till two?” Marie-Cessette says.

She’s lived with them for the past four years, moving in after a rough patch when she’d just needed a week or two to get back to her feet. Porthos has since converted what used to be a conservatory into a bedroom and ensuit bathroom and kitchenette for her, her old bedroom now a livingroom. He has effectively persuaded her to stay forever. She’s had no choice but to get used to Aramis’s frankly very weird sleeping habits. Porthos shrugs, still examining his letter. He doesn’t want to break the seal that seems like bad luck.

“What’s swalk?” he asks his mum, instead. “Is it, like, post office code?”

“Haven’t you read Going Postal, baby?” Marie Cessette asks, tutting at him.

“When I was about thirteen. Why?” Porthos says, running through various Terry Pratchetts before he thinks he’s got the right one, looking for… “Oh, sealed with a loving kiss.”

“There’s a Terry for everything,” Marie Cessette says.

She kisses his hair again on her way out, talking to Aramis briefly in the hallway as she leaves.

“Am I late?” Porthos asks when Aramis zombies his way in, hair a nest.

“No. Coffee? Anne called, gotta take Lou to school,” Aramis says, making for the coffee machine. He lets out a distressed sound, finding no coffee there. Porthos holds up his mug (mostly full) and Aramis comes to guzzle that, slumping at the table. “You think you can call Athos about the coffee machine today?”

“He’s coming over for breakfast, sometime. Whenever he wakes up,” Porthos says.

“Academics. Tch. Why are you always up so early, if you can sleep for hours like Athos does?”

“I teach, he doesn’t. I write better in the morning, if he tried to write in the morning it’d probably end in some kind of pencil related injury, he’s worse than you are,” Porthos says, running his thumb over the letter seal.

“What’s it?” Aramis says, taking the letter from Porthos’s grip. “Hmm, cool. Advert I guess?”

He snatches up the knife Porthos was using for butter and slides it under the seal.

“No!” Porthos says, snatching it back. “It’s mine, it’s illegal to open someone else’s post! You broke it!”

Aramis picks up the seal and flicks it over his knuckles, then flips it to Porthos with a shrug. It’s intact, all one piece. Porthos sets it on the table by his plate and pulls out a sheet of paper. A bunch of pressed flowers tumble out with it, which makes him smile. He picks one up.

“Porthos, what is the letter? I’m going to stab you with a butter knife,” Aramis says, impatient as always.

Porthos looks at the letter, flushes dark and, just for the sake of it, refuses to tell Aramis a single thing. He gathers up his seal and the flowers and the letter and takes it all back to his bedroom, ignoring Aramis’s indignant cries of distress and his knocking when he follows Porthos up. Porthos slides the bolt across with a grin and sits on the bed. Being able to blush on command is the best skill he ever learnt. He opens the sheet of paper again. Last time he noticed it was a poem but not much more, this time he reads it. In neat, small letters, each carefully and painstakingly written out (Porthos can see faint, pencil lines left delineating little boxes for each letter) it says:

Roses are red, violets are blue, I’ve never met anyone

Quite like you. Share my breath, take my hand,

You’ve always been my dearest friend,

Beautiful grace.

Whoever wrote the letter seems to have given up there. Porthos can see pencil marks where things have been erased, but can’t make anything out. He stares at the paper, then turns it over. There’s no signature, not even a ‘from your secret admirer’. He checks the envelope: it’s clearly marked for him. He got a secret admirer letter once, in year nine, but it had just been from Flea who felt bad he hadn’t got any valentines. Their school did a thing where you could send an anonymous rose and she’d had a whole bouquet and he’d had none. He recognised her handwriting on the note, but he never told her he knew. Or that he had received a rose, after school, given to him shyly by Jamie McNab who he played football with and who also sometimes snuck into the LGBT club things. They’d dated for a whole week. Other than that, though, most of his partners haven’t really gone in for romantic gestures. d’Artagnan, his current date-friend-person, sometimes sends him heart emojis and always buys him cake wherever they go (and when there’s going to be no cake d’Artagnan usually brings home bakes along, sometimes from his wife. d’Artagnan bakes better than Constance, though Porthos will never say so). That’s sort of romantic. Not anonymized poetry romantic, though. If that’s even what this is. Porthos has a look at the envelope again and then reads the poem. The doorbell goes and Porthos wanders down, leaving the paper and envelope on the bed.

“Hey, Athos,” Porthos says, embracing the grouchy man standing on his doorstep, engulfing him. When he emerges from Porthos’s arms he looks a tiny bit less grouchy.

“Ugh,” Athos says. “Hungover.”

Porthos heads for the kitchen to make coffee on the stovetop. Athos grumbles after him, a long string of complaints (too light, too hot, where’s Aramis? I’m cold, hug me again, why aren’t you hugging me?) trailing after him. Porthos pauses to hug Athos and then sits on the countertop. Athos stands beside him, eyes half closed.

“Good night at least?” Porthos asks.

“Ish,” Athos says. “Some of my undergrad students showed up.”

Porthos gives a dramatic shudder and presses a hand over his heart in horror. Athos shoves him off the counter for it. Porthos sits at the table and watches while Athos first downs far-too-hot coffee and then pokes his head in with the coffee machine and prods about a bit.

“Why don’t you pull it out from under the cupboards?” Porthos asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

Athos straightens and bangs his head, curses at Porthos, then pulls the machine out muttering something then eventually admitting to not thinking of it. Porthos has seen Athos do amazing things, build everything from a little boat with a wind up ‘motor’ out of debris on the beach all the way to, well, the conservatory extension on the house. He teaches architecture but he’s done engineering stuff, mechanics, set design, carpentry. He’s been at the uni for three years, which is the longest Porthos has known him stick to a job.

“What’ve you done to this, babe?” Athos mutters, not really paying attention. He only calls Porthos ‘babe’ when he’s distracted.

“Dunno, blame Aramis or Mum. I usually just do it in the cafetiere or the fancy stove one,” Porthos says.

“Your mother is never to blame.”

“Aramis, then.”

“Mm. That sounds true.”

“You’ll never guess what I got in the post this morning,” Porthos says, and tells Athos about the letter.

Athos bumps his head again and swears. Creatively. In four languages.

“Uh, it was definitely posted, huh? Stamp and all?” Athos asks.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. He hadn’t looked close but he noticed the stamp. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just, I had one once,” Athos says, vaguely, going back to the coffee machine. “Why aren’t you grading or something?”

“Papers are boring,” Porthos points out. “Besides, I want you to help me solve this mystery.”

Athos does not help. That’s ok, though, he’s got to finish fixing the coffee machine or pay the gambling debt he owes Porthos from the last teachers’ poker night, so Porthos has a captive audience for his thoughts. Athos manages to get his fingers slammed in a cupboard or something.

“So, Netflix and chill tomorrow?” Porthos says, when he’s done going through possibilities (not many).

“I’ve told you, that really doesn’t mean watching TV with ice cream,” Athos says. “And, no, I have a date with my sofa, we shall become one. I’m done, this should work now I’m gonna test it I want a cappuccino.”

Porthos gets the little coffee pod thing from the drawer his Mum keeps them in (he knows better than to steal Aramis’s coffee, last time he did that Aramis threatened to cut his fingers off. He was very convincing). When he gets close enough, to pass over the coffee, Athos wraps an arm around him and kisses his cheek.

“What’s this for?” Porthos asks, leaning into the hug.

“I’m affectionate sometimes,” Athos says, defensive. Then he grimaces. “Plus I may not be the most with it, today. I thought you were going in for a hug.”

“I was handing you coffee. This is nice, though,” Porthos says.

He can’t help laughing and Athos prods him in the ribs and wriggles away, making his drink and stalking off to the livingroom Porthos and Aramis share.

* * *

The next letter is ee cummings. Porthos lies on his bed the evening it arrives and presses it to his chest, shutting his eyes. He knows the poem, knows the words. Like they’re soaked through into him.

in the rain-

darkness, the sunset

being sheathed i sit and

think of you

the holy

city which is your face

your little cheeks the streets

of smiles

your eyes half-

thrush

half-angel and your drowsy

lips where float flowers of kiss

and

there is the sweet shy pirouette

your hair

and then

your dancesong

soul. rarely-beloved

a single star is

uttered,and i

think

of you

There’s a post-script taking issue with ‘rarely-beloved’. Porthos is pretty sure that’s not what ee cummings meant but he appreciates the ‘always beloved, really’ all the same. He’s not sure why but he hasn’t told anyone about these, not since telling Athos about the first one. Aramis asked questions but gave over when Porthos admitted it was an advert and he’d been winding Aramis up. Aramis had been on his way to church with Marie-Cessette at the time and in response he’d just said he’d pray for Porthos’s soul. Porthos rings Athos, now.

“Have I mentioned how much I like ee cummings recently?” Porthos says, as greeting.

“Nn,” Athos says.

“Are you hungover still, from the day before yesterday?” Porthos asks, laughing. It’s Sunday, he hasn’t seen Athos since Friday night when he’d had to literally carry him from the taxi to the bedroom after karaoke night. “You drink too much.”

“I’m a fish,” Athos says. “cummings?”

“Another anonymous note,” Porthos says, and reads it out, taking his time and making it all musical the way ee cummings does on the recordings.

“Oh fuck,” Athos says.

“What? It’s nice,” Porthos says. “I think it’s someone who knows me.”

“Because of ee cummings? Christ, Porthos, that’s such a cliche poet for love poems,” Athos says.

“Yeah, but I really like him,” Porthos says.

“No shit, I never would’ve guessed, you never ever mention him,” Athos says.

“You’re in a right mood. I was gonna invite you to Netflix and chill, I have Ben and Jerries, but I’m gonna invite my Mum instead,” Porthos says.

He hangs up before Athos can tell him, yet again, that he’s using that phrase wrong. His Mum is quite happy to watch the new Ghostbusters and eat ice cream with him, just like when he was a kid only now there are women in it. She didn’t know Leslie Jones was in it and when she comes on screen his mum cheers. Then spends most of the rest of the films letting Porthos know just how attractive she finds ‘Leslie’. Porthos is a little unsure how to feel about agreeing with that. They both enjoy watching Chris Hemsworth, too, one of, Porthos is sure, approximately three men in the world his mum finds attractive.

“You feeling alright, baby?” she asks him, over the credits.

“Mm? Yeah?”

“You’re very quiet, tonight,” she says. “You’ve never been quiet.”

Porthos’s mind flashes back to the time his Mum came charging down to the kitchen in a rage for him having a party after she’d said no parties, when she was right upstairs, and then been incredibly miffed to find it was just Porthos and Flea there. He was never the quietest, that’s true enough.

“Just thinking about poetry,” he says.

“You should do some writing again,” She says. “You write beautiful things.”

“Mum,” Porthos groans, slumping down into her sofa. “I don’t write poetry. I was an angsty teenager when I did.”

“Poetry is very cool,” she says.

“I teach it, I know this,” Porthos says. “Oh, I was teaching a class on Maya Angelou Friday. I know you love her.”

“I do. Are you taking your Athos out to dinner tomorrow? Has he asked you on a date yet?”

“Mum!”

Porthos goes upstairs and shuts his bedroom door. He can still hear her laughing.

(He can’t hold it against her, she got a call from a client today, he knows it’s a sad case, laughter is good).

* * *

The third letter ends up in his intray at work, no stamp. No one can tell him how it got there. He doesn’t ask too extensively because he doesn’t really want to draw attention to the fact that he’s receiving love poetry. He’s beginning to be a little uncertain about it. Romantic things in real life feel a tiny bit creepy. Or, another possibility that has crossed his mind, something a young person might do. God he hopes it’s not one of his students. He puts up his ‘in a meeting’ sign and flips the lock on his door and then opens the letter, spreading the paper on his desk.

The arch of your step blazes, you shine, burnishing gold.

I will press my cheek to your cheek, skin against skin,

Hold close to me I will bear the weight of you, joy with

the feel of you, of your heart beating against my palm.

Every moment soars, I soar with you, you are unquenchable,

Bright catch in my heart sheer blue skies.

I touch my lips to hold your smile to mine, your love

Against my breast I hold you there, hold you. Cannot

Hold you.

Porthos carefully folds the paper and tucks it into his pocket. He can see a shadow at the door, behind the comic he has up to block the window. He’s about to go let the student in when an acerbic grumble comes and then a thump on the door.

“Porthos, let me in, are you wanking in there?”

Porthos leaps up and throws the door open, ready to drag Athos in and chew him out for saying that in front of a student, but the only other person out there is Treville, busy having hysterics. Porthos scowls at both of them. Athos looks up at him, unblinking, his eyes look red. Porthos gestures him in and points him to the chair in the corner then turns to Treville, now catching his breath.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Porthos says. Treville’s his head of department but he dated Porthos’s mother once (he assures Porthos that has nothing to do with Porthos being hired here) and Porthos has known him for decades. “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Treville says. “I was stopping by for a chat but it can wait, seeing as you’re… busy.”

Treville breezes away, cackling to himself. Porthos heads back into his office and shuts the door, leaving the ‘in a meeting’ sign up. He’s in a meeting with Athos. A meeting about why Athos’s eyes are red.

“Are you drunk?” Porthos asks.

“No.”

“Hungover?”

“No.”

“Should I be worried that I genuinely have to ask those questions in the middle of a work-day?”

“No. It’s not a problem.”

“So.”

“Would you believe hayfever?” Athos says, giving a hopeful little smile. Porthos doesn’t answer, he’s not going to bother with that. Athos drops the smile and looks at his hands, frowning. “My head of department observed my teaching this morning. The seminar didn’t go very well.”

“Oh, ok,” Porthos says. Athos usually cries after being observed, that’s ok then. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not even in the slightest.”

“Ok, let’s talk about my thing, then. I’m still getting poetry in the post, unsigned. What if it’s one of my students?”

“It’s a juvenile thing, to send anonymous poetry,” Athos says, surprisingly biting. “It’s a bit pathetic if it is a grown man. Or woman. Or… enby.”

“I dunno,” Porthos says, a little taken aback by the anger in Athos’s voice.

“Truly, what kind of adult does that? It’s pitiful. Is it even good poetry? Not that it makes a difference.”

Athos has a lot more to say, ugly things pouring out of his mouth until he’s breathless, arms around himself, choking on sobs. Porthos gapes at him for long moments before shaking off the surprise and going over to soak up Athos’s tears. It’s like grief pouring out of him into Porthos’s sweater, one arm still tight over his chest the other clinging around Porthos’s waist. Porthos cries, too, helpless, having no idea why Athos is so distraught.

“It’ll be ok, it’ll be alright,” Porthos says, rocking Athos, arms around him. “I’ve got you, I’m here. We’ll be ok. We’ll be ok.”

Athos nods, shuddering. Porthos sniffs and wipes at his face, looking around for tissues. There’s a box on his desk but he doesn’t want to let go of Athos.

“It was quite a nice poem,” he whispers, instead.

“I don’t want to know,” Athos says, shivering but crying less now.

“Can I read it to you?”

“If you must.”

Porthos takes it from his pocket, unfolding it carefully, and read it out. Athos goes quiet against him, under Porthos’s hand, and sighs when Porthos is done reading.

“You make it beautiful,” Athos says.

“What do you mean?” Porthos asks.

“When you read it, it’s beautiful. I’m sorry I came in here and fell to pieces, I’m sorry I was rude.”

“That’s ok. I’m not sensitive about the odd poetry letters,” Porthos says. “Is it bad that… I quite like them. I like being thought of. I don’t know who’s sending them.”

“Would it change things?”

“I don’t know. Are you ok?”

“I’m ok.”

“We’re ok, yeah? Yes?”

Athos nods and sits up, letting Porthos go get the tissues. Porthos kneels beside him, worried by the rush of uncontainable emotion. Things going wrong and being observed when things are going wrong is stressful but that felt like it had been building a while. Porthos decides to be more insistent about Netflix and chill, in the future. Maybe he’ll take Athos to dinner. Ice cream, TV, and proper meals. That’s what Athos needs. And possibly less coffee and alcohol but that’s fairly a given with Athos.

* * *

The next letter comes soon, dropped in the letter box while he’s at work, a page torn out of a lined pad this time but the writing no less careful and neat. No more familiar. No more telling. Porthos reads the poem written on the scrap sat in the back garden.

I think I was searching for treasures or stones

in the clearest of pools

when your face …

when your face,

like the moon in a well

where I might wish …

might well wish

for the iced fire of your kiss;

only on water my lips, where your face …

where your face was reflected, lovely,

not really there when I turned

to look behind at the emptying air …

the emptying air.

Sadness settles over Porthos’s shoulders with the closing of the poem. Carol Ann Duffy, he’d know her anywhere. He can remember listening to the radio, an interview with Jackie Kay, and being astounded that she and Carol Ann Duffy were both queer. Lying on his bedroom floor, nineteen, and being struck dumb by it. He thinks of Her and Late Love by Jackie Kay, two he’s read often. Love poetry is so longing.

He’s still sat out there, staring at his love poem, when his mum gets back and comes to ask if he’s planning on making dinner. Which means he is to cook for her, so long as he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t. He puts in his headphones and calls Athos. There’s no reply so he sends a text and puts on the radio while he cooks. Athos still hasn’t texted back by the time dinner’s ready, or by the time he heads up to bed. He sends another text before falling asleep, though it’s not unusual for Athos to not text back so he doesn’t worry. When the morning passes without a reply he’s a little confused, and when Athos leaves the staff room as Porthos enters, as if seeing him coming, not even pausing to say hello, misgivings set in. By the next morning he is one hundred percent certain that Athos is giving him the silent treatment.

“What kind of grown ass man,” Porthos rants, to d’Artagnan, “gives his best friend the silent treatment? I don’t even know what I did.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” d’Artagnan agrees. He’s had a glass of wine and he doesn’t drink much so he’s now tipsy. He scooted around to Porthos’s side of the table and has laid his head on Porthos’s shoulder, knitted their fingers together. He’s not very interested in Porthos’s dilemma. “Damn shame.”

“You’re not even listening,” Porthos says.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says, tipping his head back on Porthos’s shoulder to look up at him then pressing a kiss to his neck. “I’m a little drunk. I can tell you’re not very happy, maybe I can cheer you up.”

“No thanks,” Porthos says, sighing.

He wouldn’t mind something… to be held, some kind of physical intimacy, but with d’Artagnan that usually comes with sex, which isn’t on Porthos’s agenda tonight. d’Artagnan sits up, yawning, and suggests they get the bill. It’s not d’Artagnan’s fault. When Porthos started dating him, Porthos made it clear that he didn’t want that kind of relationship. He didn’t want to be anyone’s emotional support, didn’t want that kind of intimacy, didn’t want that from anyone. He can’t now just expect it all to change because his best mate’s being a dick. He drives d’Artagnan home and goes to sit on the sofa in his mum’s living-room and watch TV with her.

“What sort of mothering are you after, Porthos? I’m tired,” she says.

“None,” Porthos assures.

Untruthfully. His mother’s a wonderful, amazing woman, she brought him up on her own and gave him all the love in the world. She’s always made Porthos feel like he’s the best thing to happen to her, made him feel intelligent and special and beautiful. But she’d also had her own life, her own things going on. He hadn’t always got what he needed from her. She hadn’t always had the time or inclination or patience to give him hugs, listen to his stories, give him attention. She’d made sure he had people in his life beside her, love from other people. He never lacked. She just hasn’t always mothered him, as much as she’d tried to be a mother she was getting her PhD, going to do law exams and working in a solicitors’ office until she could afford to become a barrister, working for various causes, meeting people. He remembers fondly her whirlwind romance with Anette, who had plenty of time for Porthos and motherhood. Marie-Cessette breaks into his thoughts with a sigh, arms coming around him and pulling him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” She says. “What happened, baby? I’m here.”

“Athos being childish, he’s not talking to me or something I don’t know,” Porthos says. “Bit tired.”

She tuts and assures him everything will be fine, then switches the TV to the news and carries on eating crisps, one arm around Porthos. He sits with her for a while, letting his eyes go heavy and the comfort of her closeness soothe him toward sleep. She gently chastises him for scheming to fall asleep on her sofa and reminds him that she can no longer carry him to bed. He goes up, bumping into Aramis on the stairs. Aramis embraces him absently, phone held to his ear talking to someone. He pauses, letting Porthos go and taking him in, frowning. Porthos waves him away and carries on to bed. He sleeps well and wakes up refreshed.

* * *

In the morning there’s another letter, stamped and everything. Porthos examines it, it has a seal again, a heart this time, and SWALK written across underneath. There’s something different, though. Porthos looks again, frowning, and thinks back. This one, he decides, has a stamp but also has been stamped. The others just had a stamp. No wavy black ink lines, no round post-office sign, nothing. They were probably not posted.

“Ether clever, or a little bit daft,” Porthos says. “Or both. What a waste of a good stamp.”

He’s sitting in his and Aramis’s livingroom, on his own, Brooklyn 99 on the TV but on low, he’s rewatching series three on Netflix and he’s seen it often before. He carefully removes the seal, keeping it to put with the other, and draws out the paper. It’s thin, this time, almost tissue, and there are love-heart candies that spill out with it. They all just say ‘love’ on them. He eats one while he reads.

To hold your hand on a sunny day,

Like our fingers are dipped in the sunshine,

Warmth thick across your broad shoulders,

Lighting your cheek and eyes and the beauty

That you bring everywhere you go.

You bring colour when you pass, riots

Of flowers bloom in your wake you make

Me see so much sheer beauty, you are beauty.

Pitch-perfect, rich toned, every note in place,

The music winds down, and I

Oh, I miss you. I cannot touch you, my hand

Is cold from where I am not touching you.

The heat between your shoulder blades and the way

Your shirt draws the lines of your body, I

Can’t reach out.

I am dust, you bring my earth rain and teach me

Growing things and your sunshine blooms me.

Beneath you I am blossom, breathed into wind.

But I miss you, I cannot hold you, I am

Un-courage.

Courage holds your bones strong where I shatter,

Your eyes bright with everything that matters,

Words come brave and bright and you stand,

I see you tall and unwavered, against the setting

Sun. Warrior, battle-hearted, strung with

The roar of the sea.

Porthos frowns. Then he folds the paper. This one is right. He doesn’t give up, he is like the sea. He doesn’t back down. Nor does he let people get away with being arseholes to him. Besides which, he knows exactly who calls him ‘battle-hearted’. What a stupid phrase.

* * *

“Athos de la Fere you coward!” he roars, bursting into Athos’s office.

He’s built up a good head of steam on his way in and now he’s ready for battle. Athos looks startled, eyes very wide, gaping up at Porthos. The student he’s got with him looks even more shocked. Bugger.

“Doctor Vallon,” Athos says. “Good of you to drop by. However, you have interru-”

“Yes, I can see,” Porthos says, turning to the student. “Sorry about that. Athos, you better find me when you’re done.”

“I better had,” Athos agrees.

Porthos nods firmly and leaves for his own office. He has a class to teach, he gathers his things and turns up early, setting up with the white board and projector. He has two back to back and then a meeting and when he returns to his office, Athos is there, the visitor chair drawn up to the desk so he can mark papers, a huge mug of coffee at his elbow.

“Hello,” Athos says, looking up. “Are you done with the dramatics?”

“Me?” Porthos says, outraged. “You!” Porthos can’t quite say it, he’s not sure he believes it. “You stopped talking to me, avoided me. What the hell? You’re an adult. You can’t punish me with refusing to respond. And- ”

“I know,” Athos says, holding up a hand and getting a word in edgewise. “The internet informed me. I hadn’t actually meant to give you the silent treatment. I have anxiety.”

“Athos!”

“I projected thoughts onto you and thought I was making myself as little nuisance as possible.”

“Right.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a reason, not an excuse. Not ‘I was right because of this’ but ‘it was me, not you’. I love you. I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose for the world, Porthos,” Athos says, very earnest.

“I didn’t eat enough food, I was hungry and tired,” Porthos says, grudgingly.

“Just … in general?” Athos asks, frowning.

“I was emotional.”

“Oh. Sorry. I brought you a chocolate bar to apologize but I sat on it and it melted. It was a bit gross.”

Porthos laughs, forgiving Athos easily in the end. He looks so bewildered and helpless about the chocolate bar. Porthos perches on the edge of his desk and huffs, shaking his head.

“You’re something else, de la Fere. What am I gonna do with you? All that poetry, my god. I’m right here, just talk to me for heaven’s sake,” Porthos says, too fond of Athos to be anything except awfully warm about it.

Athos turns around and tries to leave the office. All he manages is to walk into the door because he’s not looking where he’s going and Porthos closed it. Porthos goes to grab him and make sure he hasn’t hurt himself then hug him, laughing. Athos pushing his face against Porthos’s shoulder and his arms come up around Porthos’s back to hold onto his shirt there and probably wrinkle it.

“I am inept,” Athos says.

“Completely. In every lovely way,” Porthos assures. “Fuck me am I glad it were you and not someone creepy.”

“I am creepy.”

“Not really.”

“I was… So drunk. I forgot I sent it, that first time, until you said. I put a stamp on and just slid it in your door on my drunken meander home. I meant to sign it, I think,” Athos says. “Then, I guess I liked the idea.”

“You write terrible poetry,” Porthos says, admiringly, stroking Athos’s hair. “I adore it. I really like them.”

Athos nods, laughing a little. He huffs again, sighing, leaning into Porthos.

“I really do love you,” Athos whispers. “I can’t seem to help myself, you just engulf my entire life and all my thoughts.”

“I bloom you,” Porthos says, comfortably, incredibly pleased with himself. “Turn you all blossoms. Sounds so sexy, gonna tremble you all apart till you’re just petals, darling.”

Athos finally removes his face from Porthos’s jumper and breathes in, closing his eyes, lips against Porthos’s cheek and beard and then against his lips, careful, questioning. He thinks ‘yes’ and then Athos asks and Porthos says it aloud, and Athos’s lips are back, mouth against Porthos’s. 


End file.
